


Cafes, Clubs, and Cardboard Boxes

by CasseroleReynolds



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Coffee Shops & Cafés, Alternate Universe - Stripper/Exotic Dancer, M/M, Non-Con/Rape Outside of Castiel/Dean Winchester, Non-Con/Rape Outside of Dean Winchester/Sam Winchester, Slow Build Castiel/Dean Winchester, Slow Build Castiel/Sam Winchester, Smut, non-con/rape outside of sam winchester/castiel
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-09-10
Updated: 2015-12-21
Packaged: 2018-04-20 01:26:21
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 6
Words: 18,720
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4768352
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CasseroleReynolds/pseuds/CasseroleReynolds
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>*HIATUS*</p><p>Between running their own coffee shop and Dean dancing for money at night, the Winchester bros hardly have time to themselves. When a stranger in a trenchcoat suddenly appears in their lives, it definitely doesn't help. Fighting ensues, morality is challenged, and a serious truth is revealed.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Dean gave the counter one last wipe down before changing the sign on the door from 'Open' to 'Closed.' From the corner of his eye, he watched his brother start stacking chairs on the last bare table in the cafe. He walked behind him and put his hands on Sam's hips.

“Dean, stop,” Sam giggled, playfully swatting the hands on his sides.

Dean wrapped his arms around him and rested his chin on his shoulder. “Please, Sammy?” he whispered and gently kissed Sam's neck.

Sam turned around in his arms and dipped his head to kiss Dean softly on the lips. “Now help me with the chairs,” he said, pulling away.

“Alright, fine,” Dean muttered, lifting a chair onto the table.

The tinkling of the bell on the door rang through the shop, causing the Winchesters to quickly turn toward the cause of the sound. In the doorway stood a dark-haired man with piercing blue eyes and an ill-fitting suit.

“Um, we're closed, dude,” Dean said, pointing to the cardboard 'Closed' sign on the door.

The man turned his head to the sign. “Oh...sorry. I didn't see that,” he said with a voice deeper than Dean would have predicted. “See you tomorrow, I guess.” He gave a small wave and disappeared into the street.

“We should get a bigger sign,” Sam said nonchalantly, locking the door before returning to the chairs. Dean continued staring at the closed door, his mind elsewhere. “Dean!” Sam said a bit louder, finally grabbing his attention. Dean blinked, shook his head, and turned to his younger brother. “The hell was that?”

“Nothing,” Dean grunted. “I'm just tired, alright? Let's just get this done.”

The two finished stacking up the chairs and headed for the sleek, black car in the back lot.

“Why do you always insist on driving when we live two blocks away?” Sam asked in a slightly annoyed tone as he slid into the passenger seat.

Dean groaned. “You say that every day, Sammy. I think I know where we live.” He pulled out of the car park and turned left.

Sam shrugged. “I'm just saying, we'd cut down on the cost of gas and you'd get some exercise every once in a while.”

“Yeah, I know it keeps you healthy, but at what cost?” Dean sighed, pulling into the parking garage below their apartment.

“You're being ridiculous,” Sam continued as they stepped into the elevator and pressed the button for the fifth floor.

“Well then, why don't you walk to work and I'll keep driving?” Dean proposed, unlocking the door. They were finally in their apartment; Dean flopped on the couch, Sam headed to the fridge and took two beers out of the door.

“Because,” he said, coming back into the living room, “Between having to act professional at the cafe and your second job, I barely get to spend any _real_ time with you.”

“The cafe's closed on Thursdays,” Dean reminded him as he took a beer.

“Yeah, but the club's not,” Sam muttered into the mouth of the bottle as he took a swig.

Dean angrily put his beer on the coffee table, the glass hitting the wood with a distinct thunk. “Do you like living here?” he argued, his voice growing in intensity. “The money I make there keeps this roof over your head, Sammy. I will not have you living on the street again!” Dean now realized he was shouting and stopped to really look at his brother.

Sam was hunched into himself with a sullen look on his face. Staring at his lap, he held his beer tightly in his hands and picked at the label.

“Fine,” he said with his voice just lower than a whisper, “do whatever you want.” Sam stood, leaving his beer next to Dean's, and left to their bedroom.

Dean sighed dejectedly and slumped back on the couch. He flipped through the channels for a bit before giving up on the idea of television as a distraction. He took the spare key off the hook by the door and headed out.

The older Winchester brother walked the few blocks between their flat and the park. He stood by the edge of the stream that ran through it and tossed in a couple bits of gravel. Threw a few one by one, then he took the rest of his handful and chucked it, the pebbles splashing in an erratic pattern. He sat on the bench that stood a few feet away and watched the water run by.

“Hey.”

He wasn't sure how long he'd been sitting there but definitely not long enough to start getting picked up by strangers. Dean looked up at the voice.

“Hey,” he echoed back. He knew those eyes, having just seen them an hour ago.

“May I sit?” the mystery man asked.

“Sure,” Dean replied, unsure why this man continued to make appearances in his life. He scooted aside, making room.

The man sat, albeit closer than Dean would have anticipated but he didn't complain.

“I'm Dean, by the way,”

“Castiel.”

The two men shook hands. A feeling washed over both of them in a way that felt like deja vu, as if they'd met somewhere before besides the coffee shop.

“I thought you said you'd see me tomorrow?” Dean asked jokingly.

Castiel chuckled. “Yeah, I guess things change.”

The two continued to make light conversation sprinkled with indistinct flirting for about an hour until they noticed the sky was becoming noticeably darker.

Dean glanced at his watch and quickly stood up. “Shit, I've gotta get home.”

“I'll walk with you,” Castiel offered.

Dean shook his head dismissively. “No, that's okay.”

“Really, it's no big deal,” Castiel continued.

“Seriously, Cas, if I show up with you Sam will have a fit.”

“Sam?” he asked with a tilt of his head.

Dean ran a hand over the back of his neck. “Yeah, my, uh...roommate.”

Castiel grinned. “Ohhh,” he drew out knowingly, “I get it.”

“What?”

“Sam's that guy you were kissing in _One Hell of a Brew_.”

“What? No! Dude, just please, I can walk alone,” Dean said finally and turned away.

“See you tomorrow,” he heard being called after him as he walked out of the gates of the park.

* * *

“Where were you?” Sam asked threateningly from the recliner as Dean passed through the threshold of the apartment.

He hung the spare key back on the hook, stiffening slightly at the dark tone in Sam's voice. “I went for a walk.”

“Yeah, but at what cost?” Sam mimicked from their earlier conversation.

“I was just cooling off, alright?” He sat across from Sam on the sofa. “Look, I'm sorry I yelled at you,” Dean said softly. “I shouldn't have said that.”

Sam adjusted his crossed arms, considering his brother's apology.

“And,” Dean sighed, “we can walk to work tomorrow _if_ we're not late.”

Sam quirked a smile. “Thanks, Dean.”

Dean smirked and stood to hug his brother. “Okay, I've gotta get ready for Purgatory,” he said before quickly kissing Sam.

Dean left the apartment with his usual duffel of tear-away cop, fireman, nurse, and French maid costumes. A pair of red panties sat snugly around his hips under his jeans.

He arrived at Purgatory ten minutes before the start of his shift to clock in and stuff his extra clothes in his locker.

“Freckles!” He heard his nickname being called as he pulled off his jeans to put away. Dean turned around to see Crowley, the manager of the club, waving tonight's schedule in front of him.

“You're on in seven, stage 2. Two sets. Then do some floor work until ten thirty. After that, you're on the main stage with Mick and Simon, now go get some glitter sprayed on you.”

“Yes, sir,” he replied, shoving the rest of his clothes away and heading to the back corner of the dressing room where the makeup table was located. After a generous coating of makeup, he headed out to the left stage in his first costume of the night: fireman.

“Ladies and gentlemen, please welcome to the stage: Freckles!” Crowley's voice boomed over the PA. The small audience of patrons gave a small roar as Dean stepped into the spotlight, the sequins and glitter of his costume glistening in the harsh light.

Dean danced and gyrated for twenty minutes to the hottest songs of the early 2000s, shedding his costume slowly in the process. He collected the bills from the stage and stuffed them in his g-string before bidding the crowd goodbye with a seductive wave and ducking back to the dressing room for costume number two.

Then there he was, on the biggest stage in the joint with Adam “Mick Shagger” Milligan, a 20-something working his way through college, and Andy “Simon Said Sit on my Dick” Gallagher, a newbie, grinding and stripping together to Britney Spears's “Toxic” in a maids uniform when he caught a glimpse of unmistakeable blue eyes staring at him from the crowd. And maybe it was a coincidence, but he made more money for that dance than he had in a long time.

As he stepped off the stage, he quickly muttered to Adam, “Tell Crowley I'm going on break,” before seeking out the owner of the sapphire peepers.

“What the hell are you doing here?” he asked, astonished.

“I could ask you the same thing,” Castiel replied, raking his eyes over Dean's body.

Dean seized the opportunity to take the trenchcoat the man had draped over his arm and wrapped it around himself. “I'm trying to not get evicted,” he hissed as he tied the sash around his waist.

“And?”

Dean sighed. “And it's fun,” he admitted.

“Can I get in on this?” Castiel asked curiously.

“Can you dance?”

“Sure.”

“Well, I'll have to talk to Crowley but I'm pretty sure he'll hire you; you're pretty hot.”

“Woah? What about that 'roommate' of yours?”

“Shut up, I'm not blind.”

Castiel smirked. “So where's this Crowley guy?”

“This way,” Dean sighed, grabbing Cas's wrist. He lead him to the back office where Crowley would be marking up the schedules for the next night. Dean knocked.

“I-I'm busy,” came a stuttering, breathy reply.

“Gross,” Dean and Castiel muttered in unison.

“You'll have to come back tomorrow,” Dean told Cas in the dressing room as he changed into a tight cop uniform. Castiel was back in his trenchcoat. “He's never in a good mood after he gets off.”

As if on cue, a chubby man wearing a bowler hat barged into the dressing room with rage on his face.

“What the hell is he doing back here?” Crowley yelled, stepping dangerously closer to Castiel. “Performers only!”

Dean quickly stood between them, pushing Crowley away from his new friend. “It's fine, he's leaving.”

“I don't want you fooling around with the customers, that's why we fired Hot Wings, remember?” he continued yelling, drawing a crowd of dancers around them.

Dean briefly remembered the amber-eyed dancer Gabriel, who was fired after having sex with customers and charging for it which was not allowed at Purgatory.

“Daddy, please, it's not like that, okay?” Dean pleaded. “Just...go back to your office, I'll be in there in a second,” he punctuated his sentence with a meaningful touch on his arm.

Crowley turned to the door, shooting one final sneer in Cas's direction. Dean faced Castiel.

“Daddy?” Cas asked, giggling.

“It...calms him,” Dean answered with a blush forming on his cheeks. “Seriously though, you need to leave.” He heaved a sigh, “And I don't know if you'll end up getting this job now.” Dean left the dressing room and passed through the bead curtain between it and Crowley's office.

“Dean,” the boss addressed him harshly. Dean feared the worst; Crowley never called dancers their real names. “Sit.”

Dean sat on the leather chair across from Crowley's desk. “Sir, please, I was just–”

“Silence!” he commanded. “What you've done is completely inappropriate. Now, if it weren't for your impeccable dancing and smokin' bod, you'd be out of here.” He paused, allowing Dean to speak.

“Sir, he asked me if I could help him get a job here. We stopped by your office earlier and, well...”

“Ah, so _you_ were the ones who interrupted us,” Crowley growled and his expression grew darker.

“Yes but,” Dean began quickly, “Daddy, did you not get a good look at him? C'mon, he's twice as hot as me.”

“His face was nice but his body was hidden under that trenchcoat of his,” he grumbled.

“He'll be back tomorrow, sir. You'll be able to assess him for who he truly is.”

Crowley paused and pursed his lips in thought. “I'll consider it,” he mumbled. “Now get out of here, you're done for the night. Don't forget to tip the bartender on your way out.”

“Thank you, sir.” Dean gave a small bow before ducking out and running back to the dressing room.

The crowd of dancers was still gathered near Dean's locker. As he approached, their attention turned to him and questioned started pouring out.

“Did you get fired?”

“Who _was_ that guy?”

“He was cute.”

“Is he with you?”

“No, Gary, Dean's with that Sam guy.”

“Oh...well, what does Sam think of him?”

Dean cut them off, “Guys, enough!” he roared. “I'm out for the night, I'll let you know everything later. Now would you please let me get to my locker?”

After shoving his costumes back in the duffel, scrubbing off as much makeup as he could, and quickly redressing, he ran out the back door to his precious '67 Impala with a familiar-faced man leaning on the door.

“So? Did you talk to him?” Castiel asked hopefully.

“He said he'd consider it but you have to come back tomorrow night and _please_ wear something tighter?” he begged, tossing the duffel in the trunk.

“Uh, yeah, I'm sure I've got something,” he grumbled, stuffing his hands in the pockets of his trenchcoat.

Dean smirked and grabbed a pair of jeans from the back seat. “Here,” he said, shoving them at Cas's chest. “These are way too small for me, so they'll probably fit you just perfect to show off your ass.”

Castiel looked from the jeans in his hands to Dean and grinned. “You've been looking?”

“Shut up.” Dean was glad it was dark otherwise Cas would have seen the blush forming on his cheeks. “Well, g'night, Cas.”

“Goodnight, Dean,” he replied and waved as Dean got in his car and exited the car park.

Dean finally returned home, stopping by the laundry room to wash his sweat-stained uniforms. He walked into the apartment to see Sam asleep on the couch with the tv on, splayed with one leg over the sofa back and the tips of his fingers in the waistband of his boxers. Dean turned off the tv and crawled on top of his brother, careful not to wake him. Dean laid his head on his chest and pulled the afghan over the two of them and let Sam's light snoring lull him to sleep.

 


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> smut stuff ! (not that im very good at writing smut)

“Dean, wake up.”

Dean rubbed his eyes as they adjusted to the sunlit room. He opened them to see Sam almost fully dressed in the middle of the living room, pulling up the zipper on his jeans. 

“You better take a fast shower if we're gonna walk to work,” Sam said as he pulled on his boots.

“Walk?” 

“Yeah, you said we'd walk to work today.”

“Oh, right,” he grumbled and checked his watch. 4:35. “Why didn't you wake me up earlier?”

Sam chuckled. “I tried, dude, but you were out cold.”

Dean stood and stretched. “Well, next time try harder,” he yawned, heading for the bathroom. The older Winchester brother caught a glimpse of himself in the mirror and sighed. “I hate glitter,” he mumbled to himself as he scrubbed his face with a wet tea towel. 

Ten minutes later, Dean had finished removing the glitter from the night before and the boys were finally out of the house and on their way to _One Hell of a Brew_. When they arrived at the shop, Dean started taking the chairs down while Sam started machines and warmed pastries. 

When Dean was done with the chairs, he unlocked the front doors and the first wave of morning customers filed through. The boys took orders back to back for the first hour as usual, smiling fondly at their regulars, before they could get a break. 

“Hey, Sam, go sweep up around some of the tables,” Dean requested while he wrote the daily specials on the chalkboard behind the counter. 

Sam stacked the last of the paper cups and headed to the back room to get the broom and dustpan. 

Dean finished writing and turned around, seeing that unforgettable set of deep blue eyes on the other side of the counter. “Hey,” he smirked. “What can I get you?”

“I'm actually here to see you,” Cas answered, smiling as he leaned on the counter. 

Dean chuckled lightly. “Well, that's gonna cost extra,” he said with a wink. 

“Oh, I don't mind,” he replied, hand snaking towards Dean's on the counter. 

The door behind Dean opened and he quickly pulled his hand off the counter before Sam could get too close. A confused expression fell over Castiel's face. 

Dean cleared his throat before speaking again. “So did you try on those pants I gave you for your audition tonight?” he asked, hoping the topic of conversation seemed innocent enough. 

Cas nodded. “Yeah, they fit really nice.” He continued with a sigh, “Do you really think I'll get the job though? Even after...” Castiel trailed off and waved his hand as to imply he was talking about how Crowley had reacted. Dean seemed to understand. 

“Yeah, I think so,” Dean replied as he reached under the counter for a rag. “Don't worry. You're hot and I'm sure Crowley already has a name picked out for you.” He absently wiped some crumbs off the counter and he could've sworn he saw those blue eyes light up a bit at that. 

They stood in comfortable silence for a moment before Castiel broke it. “So what time should I be there?” 

Dean thought aloud, “Not too early; Crowley usually doesn't even come in before 10 so... yeah, 11.”

Castiel nodded, mentally noting it. The bell above the door tinkled and then there was a customer behind him. “I'll see you then,” he said to Dean before leaving him with his work, Dean waving feebly as a woman in a pantsuit ordered a latte. 

It was finally closing time. Dean had spent the last three hours staring at the clock on the wall across from the counter, silently begging it to tick faster. Sam had to remind him more than twice that there were customers to be seen to. 

He hastily flipped the chairs onto the tables, knocking a few down as he put another up and sighing angrily when he had to do his work twice. 

Sam scoffed as he watched him. “What's your hurry?”

Another chair clattered to the floor when Dean stumbled over his brother's questioning. “Nothing, I just wanna get home already,” he grumbled. 

Sam leaned against the counter. “Y'know, you've been acting really weird lately.”

“What makes you say that?” Dean countered, finally getting the last chair on a table. 

“I dunno, you just seem really eager to get out of here.” He pointedly crossed his arms. 

Dean stepped toward Sam. “Maybe because I  _really_ wanna be home in bed,” his voice dropped suggestively and his hands rested on Sam's hips. Dean slid closer, slotting their bodies together and ghosting his lips over his brother's. 

Sam hummed happily, his suspicion of Dean melting away as he felt Dean's hardness on his thigh. “Well, let's not dawdle.” Sam dipped his lips to Dean's in a firm kiss before pulling away to finish mopping the floor. 

They're home in five minutes and two minutes after that they're in their bedroom, rutting against each other and frantically peeling off each others' shirts. Dean pushed Sam back on the bed and straddled his hips, pressing light kisses against his bare neck and chest. 

Sam arched into Dean's ministrations and mewled with pleasure, his hands fisted in Dean's hair. He canted his still jean-clad hips into Dean's, who moaned against Sam's chest at the friction. 

Dean moved to Sam's nipple and bit it gently, soothing it with a quick swipe with his tongue before moving to the other. Sam's breath hitched and he pushed Dean over so he was on top and slowly grinded his hips against his brothers. They both let out moans of pleasure and Dean could no longer take it.

His hands flew to Sam's fly, undoing it deftly before working on his own. The two slid out of their jeans and tossed them to the floor. 

Sam noticed that Dean had again worn his “Night Work” underwear to his “Day Work.” 

“So, you wearing those all the time now?” he breathed, eyes glued to the erection pressed against the pink fabric. 

Dean rolled over so he was on all fours, wiggling his perfectly pantie-covered ass at Sam. “You know you love it,” he teased. 

Sam grinned darkly and pulled Dean's ass closer to him. He rubbed his own erection in the cleft of Dean's ass and groaned through clenched teeth. “God, I love it,” he growled. He leaned over the smaller man below him and reached into the bedside table drawer for a bottle of lube. 

Sam slicked up his fingers and tossed the bottle aside for now. He pulled the panties aside and slowly slid one inside Dean's ass, giving him the time to adjust. Sam was thrusting his finger in and out and Dean was begging for more. By the time Sam had three fingers buried inside, the pink panties tight against his hand, Dean was practically sobbing for his dick. 

He picked up the lube again and slathered it on his hard cock. He lined himself with Dean's hole and pressed in just the tip lightly, teasingly. 

“Sam, goddamn it, just fuck me,” Dean whined, rocking himself back against Sam's cock. 

Sam leaned over him again to press light kisses against his back. He had one hand wrapped around his cock, holding it just against Dean's ass, and the other slid around to Dean's chest, playing at his almost-overly sensitive nipples.

“Please, Sam,” he pleaded. 

Sam finally pushed in and Dean finally had that fullness he had been missing for too long. Both jobs had been so time consuming that they hadn't done this in almost two weeks. 

When Sam was fully sheathed in Dean, he pulled back slightly before pushing back in again. Dean was moaning so loud they were sure this time the neighbors would say something. Sam groaned raggedly against Dean's shoulder, nipping at it every few thrusts. 

Dean turned his head and caught Sam's mouth in a rough kiss as the two rocked together on the bed, their noises growing in volume. Sam was at the perfect angle to hit that bundle of nerves every time and Dean was beginning to see stars. 

“I-I'm gon-na...!” Dean whined. He could tell by the sounds that Sam wasn't as close as he was. Boy must be masturbating when he's gone at work or something. 

Sam quickly pulled out and flipped Dean onto his back. He kissed him fervently, his own dick in his hand trying to catch up to Dean. The older Winchester replaced Sam's hand with his own and pumped him faster, Sam thrusting his hips into his hand. Sam's moans were getting higher in pitch, meaning his orgasm was on its way. 

Dean let go of his cock and Sam pushed it back into his ass. Dean could have screamed at the sudden force, or the pleasure, he couldn't decide. Sam was hitting the spot again, harder and faster than before. Sam's hand was suddenly palming his dick through the panties and he was coming hard, Sam just behind him. Streams of come painted their chests and filled Dean. 

Sam collapsed on Dean, breathing heavily, both of them shaking in their post-orgasm glow. 

“I missed this,” Dean breathed. 

Sam nodded against his neck. “Me too,” he whispered, unable to say more. Dean pulled the blanket over them and they fell asleep like that, not caring that they were still covered in Dean's spunk.

* * *

 

Two hours later the brothers were jarred awake by Dean's alarm that meant it was time to get ready for his second job. He kissed Sam softly, telling him to go back to sleep and sat up blearily, somewhat sore from the earlier events of the day. 

Dean stretched his hands above his head and yawned before absently scratching his belly. Oh, right. He went to the bedside table and opened the drawer to find the wet wipes. He cleaned himself off and got dressed, not even bothering to change out of the underwear he was wearing. 

He pulled the duffel of work clothes from the corner of the closet and headed out. The Impala roaring to life under him as he pulled out of the garage and drove toward the club. Dean quietly hoped that Castiel got there okay and that Crowley won't do something terrible to Dean if Cas ends up being not that good a dancer when he was the one to refer him.

The green-eyed man walked through the back door of the club, duffel handles held tight in his hand as he passed through the threshold. He tossed his stuff into his locker and started dressing in his tight, fake cop uniform. He checked the schedule on the wall before heading to the stage where he would dance for the next half-hour or so. 

On his way out, Dean caught sight of that mess of black hair and iconic blue eyes beneath. “Cas!” he exclaimed, jogging toward him. “You're here! Has he seen you yet? Are you in?” he began spouting out questions before Castiel could even greet him. 

“Hello, Dean,” he breathed through a smile. “I'm actually on my way to Crowley's office,” he answered, pointing over Dean's shoulder. “How do I look?” Dean finally looked down and, damn, he didn't think seeing someone else in his own jeans would be so arousing.

Wait. What?

“You...you look great, Cas,” he breathed uneasily. Cas was wearing a plain white button down, as usual, but without the backwards blue tie. Instead it had been neatly buttoned all the way up save for the top button, and tucked in somewhat messily, but like it was intentional. And it looked incredible. Dean admired him quietly and then remembered why he was out here. He jabbed a thumb toward the stage. “Actually I'm about to go on so I'll see you when I'm done?”

Cas smiled and nodded. “Yeah, in the back room hopefully.”

Dean quickly waved and disappeared to the curtain before reappearing again, announced with his alias by Crowley's disembodied voice. The regulars in the crowd whistled and there were bills in the air before the music even started. 

A good amount of songs later, Dean had been dismissed from the stage with a wad of tens and twenties. He nodded approvingly at the cash and righted the bills so he could fold them properly as he walked back to the dressing room. 

 


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> idk how to tag this but *shrugs* kinda dub-con ig? check the end for further information (slight spoiler)

Dean made it back to the dressing room and scanned it for Cas, putting on one of the silk robes that hung by the door. Sighing sadly, he couldn't find the blue eyed man that seemed to delightfully haunt his life. Dean went back out to the floor to see if he had been sitting out there somewhere.

He wasn't there either.

His stomach began to churn. Dean didn't know exactly what this meant but he had a pretty good idea. He turned and bolted for Crowley's office. As he went to knock, the door flung open, revealing a disgruntled Crowley and a slightly flushed Castiel whose eyes didn't quite meet Dean's, but smiled a bit nonetheless.

Fuck.

(Literally.)

Crowley put a hand on Cas's shoulder and pushed him toward Dean. “He's good,” he grunted. “Tell Gingerbread he's sitting out his next dance with you. This one will join you instead; show him the ropes. ” With that, he retreated back to his office, leaving Dean and Castiel alone in the short hallway.

Dean put his hands on Cas's shoulders and turned him to face him directly. “Cas, tell me you didn't–”

Castiel sniffed quietly and looked up now. Dean noticed a slight redness to his eyes. “I'm okay; no big deal,” he all but whispered. Dean pulled the smaller man into a hug.

“C'mon, my next dance isn't for another twenty minutes. Let's go sit in my car for a bit.” Dean led Cas through the dressing room and out to the parking lot. He unlocked the passenger door of the Impala and lowered Cas into the seat before running to the driver side.

It was quiet for what felt like hours but it could only have been about five minutes, Dean just staring at Cas and Cas staring at the dashboard, his knees brought up to his chest.

“Say somethi-” Dean began in a whisper but Castiel interrupted.

“We didn't...I mean,” he blurted then sighed. “I just blew him.”

Dean leaned his head on the back of the seat. “Cas, I...I feel so bad.”

Castiel shook his head. “It's okay, really.”

“No...it's just...he does this stuff all the time.” Dean dropped his eyes to the pedals. “I should've known,” he said quietly. “I shouldn't've let you come here.”

“No, really, it's okay. I need the job.”

Dean blinked and stared at the blue-eyed man. “ _That_ bad?”

Cas chuckled lowly and it was quiet again for a while until he asked, “So why are you here?”

Dean straightened in his seat. “I told you, rent money.”

“No, I meant,” Castiel shook his head slightly, “like, how did you get started here?”

Dean sighed, running a hand through his hair. “Do you mind if we don't talk about that right now?”

Cas raised his hands defensively. “Okay.” He lowered his feet. “I'll be fine though, so let's go back to work, alright?”

Dean nodded and the two were back in the dressing room, Cas watching as Dean put on another cheaply made costume. He waited there while Dean went back out to the main room. “The Stroke” by Billy Squier poured through the beaded curtain that served as a door as Cas's hands fidgeted in his lap.

The music they played at Purgatory was usually any song that came out in the last decade that had a somewhat sexual beat, but every once in a while a good song would find its way to the speakers. Dean had a hunch that their DJ secretly had a stash of classic rock CDs in her booth somewhere. Whenever one of these songs played, Dean knew he'd be raking in tips because these were the only songs he actually knew and he could make these dances ten times better.

He swayed his hips perfectly in time with the beats and bent over and showed his ass to the crowd when necessary. The guys in the front row wolf whistled and tucked singles in his waistband as the song continued.

When the song finished, he went back to the dressing room. Castiel was still sitting on the bench in front of a row of lockers, looking anxious.

“You okay?” Dean asked the smaller man as he opened his locker. Cas shrugged.

“Nervous, is all,” he replied, wringing his hands in his lap.

Dean patted his shoulder. “Don't worry. They'll love you,”: he said as he stuffed away his previous outfit. “Just follow my lead and you'll be fine.” Dean smiled encouragingly and pulled on a pair of black shorts and a tight grey tee.

Castiel nodded hesitantly and stood, following Dean to the main stage.

“Ladies and gentlemen, you all know Freckles; please welcome our newcomer: Angel!” Crowley's voice echoed from the speakers as Dean and Cas strutted onto the stage. Warrant's “Cherry Pie” pounded throughout the club (one of the better song selections) and Dean began gyrating to the music; Castiel was slow to start.

Dean held Cas's hips and moved them along with his own, winking slyly at him as he did so. He let go and Cas continued mirroring his movements.

Castiel smiled and slowly unbuttoned his shirt, tossing the discarded garment into the crowd. Someone caught it and swung it in a circle above their head.

The song continued, the two men still dancing. Castiel now had his back turned to Dean and shook his ass sensually against Dean's crotch. Out of reflex, Dean put his hands back on Cas's hips and guided him closer to himself, grinding his hips against the swell of his bum.

Castiel arched his back against Dean's chest. Dean's thumbs slipped into the waistband of the man's pants and slid them down just enough to show the boxer-briefs that clung to Castiel's toned ass.

Dean moaned against his neck, momentarily forgetting where he was. He rutted harder against the smaller man and the sudden sound of people cheering and whistling egged him on. He slid his hands up Castiel's front and grazed his nipples, making him sigh and rest his head on Dean's shoulder.

Castiel turned around in Dean's arms and slipped Dean's shirt over his head, tossing it aside. Their bare chests now inches away from each other; their breath mingling in the space between them. Dean looked into the sparkling blue eyes of the other man, losing all inhibitions.

He leaned in, about to close the distance between their lips when the song ended. A mix of applause and disappointed jeers came from the audience, along with several notes that floated onto the stage like pencil shavings.

The two waved and winked at the audience as they picked up their earnings and left the stage. They were in the dressing room before Castiel spoke again.

“Oh,” he said suddenly. “I should retrieve my shirt, or else I wouldn't have anything else to wear.” He turned and disappeared through the bead curtain.

Dean dressed again, in his street clothes this time as it was the end of his shift. Cas returned, shirt in hand.

“How did I do?” he asked quietly as he slipped on the white fabric.

Dean smirked and slid closer to the shorter man. “Terrible,” he joked, slipping a hand around Cas's waist.

Cas blushed, leaning into him and said, “Well, maybe you're a bad teacher.” He slid his hands up Dean's arms and brought their bodies even closer.

“Then I guess we both need to practice more.” Dean's hand was on Castiel's chin, lifting his lips to his own, when a loud guitar riff rang from his phone. He leapt off Cas; only one person he knows would be calling him this late.

Dean found his phone in a pile of clothes and answered it. “Hey, Sam,” he breathed.

“Hey, Dean. You almost off?” asked Sam, voice hoarse with sleep.

Dean smirked at the thought of Sam waking up and immediately wondering where he was. Then scowled at himself because where he was was seconds away from kissing someone. Awesome. He glanced back at Castiel who was now buttoning up his shirt.

“Dean?” Sam's voice pulled him from his reverie.

Dean flinched, turning away from Castiel. “Yeah, uh... I just finished my last dance of the night; I'll be home soon.”

“Get take out on your way home,” he yawned.

Dean sighed and countered with, “There's food at the house.”

“I'm too tired to make anything.”

“Fine. You want Cream of Sumyungai?” Dean snickered.

Sam chuckled. “No, I already had that today.”

“Alright, I'll pick up pizza or something,” he smiled. “See you later. Love you.”

“Love you, too.”

When Dean turned around, Cas was already gone. Kinda bittersweet, but whatever. He packed up the rest of his clothes and gave the bartender $10 before heading to his car.

Pizza boxes in the front seat, Dean was down the street from the apartment. Rain drops poured onto the windshield as the wiper blades swept them away. As he passed the park, Dean noticed someone sitting against the fence. They were hunched and trying to get as much cover from the rain as possible with a raincoat held over their head.

Dean pulled over and took the umbrella from under his seat. He unfolded it and held it above him as he walked to the figure.

Blue eyes pierced through the darkness of night and into Dean's green ones. Dark hair wet and sticking to his forehead, the corners of Castiel's lips quivered.

“Jesus!” Dean gasped and held the umbrella over his coworker as he held out a hand to help him up. Cas thanked him quietly. Both under the umbrella now, Dean spoke.

“What the hell are you doing out here?” he asked, astounded that someone would chose to sit in the rain.

Castiel sighed and glanced around nervously before replying. “I got to the shelter too late and there weren't any more open beds for the night.”

Dean blinked hard at him. Shelter? “You're...” he began quietly. Words jumbled in his head. He could barely form a sentence, let alone a question, despite that he could pretty much figure out what that meant.

“Homeless?” he finally choked out.

Castiel shrugged. “Yeah,” he said plainly.

Images of Sam, near a decade ago, flashed in his mind. He remembered the teenager calling him after almost two years of no contact. He had run away, sick of how their father was treating him. When Dean tracked him down, Sam looked skinny as ever and his torn clothes were nearly falling off his body.

After a few months of sleeping in Dean's bed, the nightmares had finally ebbed.

Dean led Cas to the warmth of the Impala. There was a long silence before Dean offered, “We have an extra room in our apartment, by the way. Y'know...if you wanna.” He said it all fast, afraid if he said it slower he'd never get it out.

“Are you sure?”

“Yeah. At the moment it's just Sam's library, but we have an air mattress that you can use until we get you a real bed.”

Castiel seemed to consider it for a moment. “Would I have to pay rent?”

“Hell no!” Dean retorted.

Castiel closed his fingers around the trenchcoat in his lap and shut his eyes. “I...I don't know...” he said slowly.

“Cas, please,” Dean begged. “At least let me take you home for the night? Let you shower and have somewhere warm to sleep.” He looked pointedly to the window where the rain continued to beat down. Dean's hand snaked onto Cas's.

The smaller man finally nodded. Dean smiled and drove to his apartment.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Castiel does technically consent but he's being manipulated with money. (nondescript tho, they're just talking about that it happened)


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> because i feel like its been a while since ive updated this im gonna add two chapters today   
> (also this chapter involves some violence)

Dean balanced the pizza boxes in one hand and unlocked the door with the other.

“Are you sure you don't want me to hold those?” Castiel had said when Dean almost dropped them getting out of the car.

“No thanks,” he had replied with a frustrated grunt.

Dean walked into the apartment with Castiel following close behind. Sam, who was sitting in the recliner–nose in a book, feet on the table–looked up with a raised eyebrow. He said nothing as Dean put the pizzas next to his feet and led Castiel to the bathroom.

Sam recognized Castiel as the man he'd seen in the coffee shop at least twice by now. He had a growing suspicion that something was going on between the man and his brother, especially in the way Castiel had his hand on Dean's in the shop today.

“Who's that?” asked younger brother to older brother when Dean returned to the living room.

Dean sighed and plopped his bottom onto the couch. “His name is Castiel. He's a newbie at the club and I found out he's homeless.” Dean's eyes weren't focused on Sam's when he said this, they were more directed toward a funny brown spot in the carpet. “I offered him to stay here–“

“Without talking to me first?” Sam interrupted. Dean looked up and saw Sam's firm gaze and crossed arms.

Dean glared. “He agreed to staying just tonight,” he gritted. “Why wouldn't he be able to stay?”

Sam stayed silent, holding Dean's gaze. The apartment was quiet aside from the sound of water splashing, inside from the shower and outside from the rain.

_He was sprinting as fast as his legs could carry him. He'd round the corner and he'd be safe, surely, the door of the shelter being the perfect barrier between him and his aggressors. Sam ran to the corner and turned._

_The door was gone. He was on the wrong block. Before him was a dark alley with only a single dumpster to hide behind, if that. Sam glanced back at the two men chasing him, only about ten yards away by now. He sped into the alley._

_The foul smell of garbage filled his nostrils and he gagged. As he ducked to crouch by the dumpster, he lost his footing on the slick ground and fell. His head thunked against the metal corner of the can and his vision blurred into one, big color._

_Sam could hear quick footsteps coming toward him. He laid there motionless, in the dark of the night, in the puddle of what was presumably garbage juice._

_And he was probably gonna die._

_These men were going to murder him. Him, Sam Winchester, the 17 year old homeless gay teen with, like, $12 to his name. What assholes._

_He heard the inevitable stomping of feet coming toward him, echoing against the walls._

The shower stopped. The bathroom door opened with a squeak and the two brothers turned their attention to the man who stepped through it.

Dean lamely pointed at the untouched pizza boxes. Castiel shook a hand dismissively at them.

“I'd like to go to bed now,” he said. Dean nodded and retrieved the inflatable mattress from the hall closet, waving for Castiel to follow him to the spare bedroom. It was a two-bedroom apartment; this was where the books slept.

Dean set up the mattress between the bookcases that lined the wall and the desk in the middle of the room. He covered it with a set of flannel sheets.

“Thank you, Dean,” Castiel said quietly before Dean ducked out.

Dean was just about to cross through the threshold of his and Sam's bedroom when he heard his brother speak from the living room.

“He didn't have it as bad as me.” Dean stopped.

“Don't you do that.” Dean turned and frowned at Sam. “Don't try to compare your problems like that.”

Sam stood. “Lawrence is _nothing_ like–“

“That doesn't mean anything!” Dean half-yelled, half-whispered. “He deserves a home, Sam.”

“So did I!” Sam countered, matching Dean's tone.

“And you got one, didn't you?”

Sam's jaw set and his shoulders dropped slightly. “Go to bed,” he muttered, pointing back to their bedroom and sitting on the couch.

“Aren't you coming, too?” Dean asked quietly, the tension still hanging in the air.

“No.”

_Fists pounded into his ribs and a foot crushed his groin. He was screaming, or at least trying to. One of them had both Sam's wrists pinned with one hand with the other hand cupped around his mouth._

_Sam wriggled as much as he could, but he was weak with malnutrition and these men were much bigger than him. There were only two, but blinded from the knock to the head it felt like ten._

_They finally dropped him back on the ground, laughing menacingly. What exactly Sam had done to provoke this he had no idea. With the temporary blindness receding, the bigger of the two, who in the dim light filtering from the street Sam could now see had cropped blonde hair, hovered over him and reached into his pocket._

_"No," Sam coughed._

_He pulled out a fistful of coins and some crumpled bills, shoving them into the pocket of his own jeans. Sam could hardly see how any of this was worth such a small amount of cash to this guy. He gave one more kick to Sam's stomach and they finally left._

_Sam was slumped on the ground and blood was pouring from his mouth and nose. Bruises were blooming on his chest, face, legs, arms. Basically his whole body, not that he could really see it yet._

_He cried, each sob like an additional punch, wreaking pain through his abdomen._

The next morning, two full pizzas were stored in the fridge. It was Thursday, meaning the shop was closed and Dean and Sam usually slept in. Castiel was awake at 6.

He deflated the mattress and neatly folded the sheets before tiptoeing through the apartment to the door.

“Cas?”

Dean was standing in the kitchen with a mug of what was mostly coffee. Castiel's hand slipped from the doorknob.

“I'm causing domestic problems in other peoples' homes,” he stated, head lowered.

“No, trust me, that was all us,” Dean chuckled. He paused for a bit and cleared his throat uncomfortably. “Honestly, I didn't even think you heard.”

Castiel sighed. “Thank you for this, but I must go now.” He turned and before Dean could say anything he was gone.

Dean hadn't slept at all that night and, given from his fitfulness, Sam didn't get much sleep either. Dean drained the 60% coffee 40% bourbon from his mug and set it in the sink. He sat by Sam's legs on the couch.

The younger brother's nose scrunched up in his sleep and Dean saw it as half pitiful, half adorable. He patted Sam's legs and the man jolted awake, his hair sticking up in disarray. Sam was breathing heavily and his eyes darted around the apartment.

_Sam finally found the strength to get up. Morning was coming; he could see the sky lightening between the buildings. He made it to the main street once more and searched for any business with a light on._

_There weren't any, he figured as such._

_He eventually found a phone. Sam collect called the only number he'd memorized._

_"Hello?"_

_"Dean!" he cried. "Dean, please..."_

_"Sammy?"_

_"De...th-these guys, I..." Sam was shivering. Whether from the cold or the shock of it all, he'd never know._

_"Shhh," Dean cooed. "Where are you? I'll come get you." His voice was calming in ways Sam would never really understand. But at least he could actually hear it; any other sound seemed to come through a tunnel._

_Sam looked to the nearest street signs. "I-I think I'm in Topeka...uh, Washburn Avenue and Seventh..."_

Dean slid up to his brother and held his shaking figure in his arms. “Shhh, it's okay, Sammy,” he whispered. “You're here, now; you're safe.”

Sam's damp forehead was pressed against Dean's neck and he sniffled. Dean took the blanket from Sam's lap and wrapped it around their shoulders. He moved to stand and Sam's hand shot up and gripped Dean's wrist. He looked up at his big brother with pleading eyes.

“I'm just getting you something to eat,” Dean explained softly. Sam nodded and hesitantly let go of him. Dean went to the kitchen and took the bag of Frosted Flakes down from the top of the fridge. He brought the bag to his little brother who smiled as it was handed to him.

Sam unrolled the top of the bag and shoved his hand inside.

_He was sitting under the awning of a closed antique shop. It turned out it was actually Sunday (Sam had no way of keeping track of the days anymore). The sun was high in the sky and the only shade he could get from it was behind his flop of brown hair as he sat with his back against the window of the store._

_The rumble of an old car engine came close, making Sam sit up. He peered at his dad's Impala through the greasy bangs in his face. Sam almost started running again until Dean flew from the car._

_"Sammy," he breathed as he came close, looking over his little brothers now ragged body. Sam put his thin arms around Dean and pulled Sam's face into his chest before he started crying again._

_Dean carefully moved Sam to lay in the back seat of the Impala, kneeling awkwardly in the small space between the seats. He held Sam's hand tightly in his own._

_"You don't have to talk about it," Dean whispered, rubbing his thumb in circles on the back of his hand. Sam nodded his head against the seat._

_Dean drove them back to his hole of an apartment: a studio with wood paneling and one small window high up on the wall. He took the comforter from the bed in the corner of the room and draped it over Sam's shoulders and led the gaunt boy to the kitchenette._

_Sam sat at the table while Dean took every scrap of food out of his fridge and cupboards and shoved them in front of his brother. Sam opened a box of cereal and ate it by the handful, cramming the oaty bits into his mouth._

A good portion of the bag was sitting neatly in Sam's stomach and the brothers were now laying in each others arms. Dean lazily skimmed through the channels on the tv, the remote laid on Sam's chest as he poked at the buttons.

“Where's Cas?” Sam asked after such a long while Dean thought he'd fallen back asleep.

“Left,” he replied with a shrug. “Guess he really didn't wanna stay here after all.”

Sam nodded. “But he works at the club, right? You'll see him tonight?”

Dean didn't answer. Honestly, he had no idea if Castiel would come back to the club after everything that's happened.

“You wanna shower?” Dean suddenly asked.

_Dean pushed Sam's dirty hair out of his face. "You should get cleaned up," he said. Sam knew he was right, not only about his general hygiene but also the blood that had dried on him._

_Sam carefully shrugged out of what was left of his shirt and winced at the movement. Dean gasped as he took in the sight of his brother's chest. Purple spots on his shoulders and stomach and even darker stripes on his ribs where they jutted out. There were gashes from where the rings the men wore cut his skin, road rash on his sides from where he fell. Dried blood flaked off in tiny brown sprinkles._

_Besides his injuries, Sam still didn't look great. His hipbones were too sharp and his shoulder blades stuck out like dorsal fins. And despite living outside, his skin was still sickly pale, emphasizing the bruises._

_Dean helped him into the phonebooth-sized shower. He twisted the doohickeys on the wall and warm water trickled out of the shower head. Sam flinched away from the weak stream. Dean wet a rag and carefully rubbed it over Sam's arms. The younger brother whimpered softly and Dean shushed him and pressed a small kiss to the boy's forehead._

_He reached past the ghostly figure of Sam and snatched the bottle of shampoo. Dean first squeezed out a dime-sized amount, then as a second thought poured enough to fill his palm. He slowly massaged it through Sam's hair._

_Sam hummed complacently and moved his head with Dean's hands. Dean smirked and continued, feeling the gritty slide of hair and lather in his hands._

_"Should I set you up an appointment for a haircut?" Dean asked, somewhat jokingly. Sam giggled and shook his head._

_Dean eventually got Sam to relax enough to stand under the shower head and rinse his hair. He finished getting clean and turned off the water and Dean wrapped him in a towel, the fabric swallowing his tiny body. Dean realized his brother looked like a giant human burrito and snickered._

_The older brother opened the top drawer of the dresser that held up his tv and tossed Sam a t-shirt and plaid pajama bottoms. The shirt slid off his shoulders and the pants would only stay up if he tightened the drawstring enough for almost two feet of excess string to hang from his waist. It would have been somewhat comical if the clothes were purposely oversized and Sam wasn't underweight._

Dean started the shower and Sam undressed himself, then moved to undress Dean as well. He stepped into the cubicle and let the hot water wash over him and relax his muscles. Dean followed, standing behind him with his hands on Sam's hips.

Sam turned and ran his hands up and down Dean's arms, getting slicker with the water that poured over them.

“I love you,” he whispered.

Dean smiled. “I know.”

Sam playfully jabbed his ribs. “Jerk. You always do that.” He filled his hand with shampoo and started working it through Dean's hair.

“And _you_ always use too much 'poo for me.” Dean grabbed Sam's wrists and moved them so his hands flopped into his own hair.

“Poo,” Sam repeated. Dean smirked and stepped passed him into the direct spray of water and rinsed his head, then turned and shoved his hands into Sam's mop of hair. Sam's hands fell as he let his brother go to work.

“I like when you do this,” Sam said quietly as Dean's hands moved through his hair.

“You say that every time.”

“Because I like it every time.” They both chuckled and then it was time to rinse. They took turns washing each others bodies then took turns fisting each others dicks. Dean came just after Sam and their cum mixed together as it all slid off their bodies and down the drain.

They dried off, dressed, and ate the leftover pizza for lunch.

_As much as Sam fought it, he really did need sleep. Dean pushed him down in his bed and pulled the covers over his little brother. It was only 3 pm so Dean just sat in a chair from the kitchen and watched him. It took a while, but Sam eventually fell asleep._

_However, about an hour later, Sam was kicking and thrashing. The blankets fell off him and he screamed. Dean rushed from his seat and joined his brother on the bed. He tried to hold down Sam's arms but he wriggled out, still asleep._

_"Sam!" Dean yelled, trying to wake him. Sam's eyes stayed clenched._

_Sam turned them and the two rolled off the bed and onto the floor with a thud. His eyes opened and Dean could see the redness around his irises._

_He breathed heavily. "D-Dean, they were..." he sobbed. "I couldn't–he...!"_

_"It's okay, Sammy." Dean moved from hovering over Sam to laying next to him. Sam wedged himself into Dean's side and wet his shirt with tears._

_Sam sniffed hard and his sinuses made that awful snorting noise that sometimes happens when one is really upset. "I don't know what I did," he cried, Dean's hands carding through his hair. "They jus' came after me!"_

_Dean's hand came down and cupped his brother's cheek, brushing away a tear with his thumb. "They're gone," he whispered as Sam continued babbling. “I'm here, you're safe now.”_

_Sam covered his face with his hand and shook harder. Dean hooked a finger under Sam's chin and lifted his face to look at him. Sam dropped his hand and revealed his wet, hazel eyes._

_"You never have to live like that again," Dean said quietly. "I...I love you."_

_Sam smiled. "I love you, too."_

_Then they realized where they were: on the floor, in each others arms, legs entangled, Sam's head on Dean's chest, tears in their eyes. It was all very intimate, so Dean did what he would naturally do in this situation._

_He dipped his lips to Sam's._

_Sam pushed away. "Wha-?"_

_"I-I'm sorry," Dean stuttered, sitting up and scooting away. "I just--" Dean was panicking because, oh God, he just kissed his brother and despite how fucked up their family had been that's probably the most fucked up thing ever. He hid his face in his hands. "I'm sorry, that's so weird," he yelled through his fingers, "Jesus fucking Christ." Sam said nothing, which was probably worse than anything he could say. The tension in the air was like cold butter, or at least that's what it felt like to Dean._

_He couldn't breathe. He was gasping and the oxygen just wasn't reaching his lungs. How the fuck could he do this? And now Sam wouldn't want to live with him (_ fuck shit _) and he'd have to live (_ no no no _) on his own again and (_ god fucking damn it, no _) those guys would come back eventually, right?_

_Sam's hand on Dean's knee startled the older brother. He moved his hands and Sam was sitting up and looking at him._

_He put his hands on both sides of Dean's face and quickly kissed him again. Sam rested his forehead against Dean's. "It's okay," he whispered, echoing the words that Dean's been saying all day._

_"But...you pushed me away, I thought..."_

_"I was just surprised. You could've asked, you know."_

_Dean smiled and pulled Sam back into the bed, shuffling under the covers and falling asleep just like that: happy and warm in the presence of each other._

 


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this is the second chapter im adding today so if ur just checking now there might be a chapter youre missing so check ch4 before you read this
> 
> (tw:r*pe, alcohol, emeto, marijuana, suicide/self harm mentions, longest chapter as of now)

It had been a year since Dean picked up his brother from the street. Sam had gained some weight back and no longer looked like he could easily be snapped in half. His hair was thick and voluminous and the ends curled at the collar of his shirt. The nightmares of the attack were now very infrequent and he was sleeping through the night again. They'd since moved out of the crappy studio and into a two-bedroom apartment. In the beginning, Sam and Dean slept in separate rooms but that proved to be not the most ideal situation when Sam's nightmares were occurring nightly again. Sam moved into Dean's room and they converted the extra room into a library/office. Not that they could really afford very many books at the time but it was better than having the bookcases take up space in the living room.

The mechanic shop Dean had been working at was about to close and he needed to find a new job quick. He'd tried looking for more shops in the area but none needed more help, despite how well Dean worked. Sam had his own job as a busboy at a cafe down the street from their apartment. Dean eventually gave in and let Sam put in a good word with his boss, Ellen, about him working there.

Within a week, Dean and Sam were working together in the coffee shop, named _One Hell of a Brew_ ; Sam had been promoted and now prepared people's orders behind the counter. Dean grimaced at that. Wasn't he the older brother? Shouldn't he be making more money between the two of them?

Regardless, together they were still only making enough to either pay rent or buy food, not enough for both.

Dean was in the express line buying bread, peanut butter, and milk (all they could afford) when a dapper, older gentleman with a derby hat and an ornate flamingo pin on his lapel approached him.

The man told him his name was Crowley then leaned closer, so only Dean could hear him, and told him that Dean was the most handsome man he'd ever seen.

Although Dean was flattered, he was mildly creeped out. This man had to be at least twice his age and his attire wasn't exactly something he was used to seeing.

Dean ignored the comment and continued to pay for his groceries, Crowley still hovering behind him. He put two rumpled bills on the counter and carefully counted out the change in his pocket. Wiping a hand down his face, he sighed when he realized he was still two dollars short. Dean was about to ask for the cashier to put back the bread when Crowley loudly cleared his throat.

The older man produced a tenner and placed it next to the money Dean had already put down.

"Uh, thanks," Dean said. Crowley nodded and slipped something into Dean's back pocket, cupping his ass slightly before pulling his hand away. He disappeared quickly after that.

Dean took his change, receipt, and food and headed home. He realized then that Crowley had slid a business card into his pocket.

'Purgatory: Gentleman’s Club. Male Dancers. Open to All Paying Customers.' And a phone number.

Did a stranger just offer Dean a job as a stripper? He tucked the card away for now, slipped into the small crack under the tv.

The card went ignored for well over a week. Until Sam dropped his wallet on his way home from work; it contained most of his paycheck for that month in cash, $200 at least.

He came into the apartment crying, saying to Dean that he'd looked everywhere between the building and the cafe. Dean held his shaking body on the couch for an hour, petting his hair and whispering to him over and over that it wasn't his fault.

"But it was!" Sam yelled. "Just like–like when..." and he cried harder.

Dean grabbed his shoulders and looked into his eyes as well as he could. "That was _not_ your fault, Sammy," he said calmly. Sam lowered his head and shook it.

"Yes it was," he muttered.

"How could it have been it your fault?" Dean countered.

Sam shrugged and looked away. Dean brought his brother back into his chest.

"It's gonna be okay, Sammy," he eventually said, eying the space under the tv over Sam's head.

It was just after midnight; Sam was asleep in their bedroom. Dean slid his index finger under the tv and retrieved the card. He stared at the too-distinguished-for-a-strip-club business card that he held in one hand while holding the phone in his other. He sat on the couch and laid the phone on the table for now, spinning the card in his hands as he gained the strength to make the call. As it turned to the back, he realized there was something written there. Another phone number?

That made more sense, he guessed. A man like Crowley using a random business card in his wallet to give Dean his number, which happened to be a strip club card because he was a slimy old man who hit on guys at the supermarket. He dropped the card next to the phone and sighed. Back to square one, then.

Dean stood and went to the kitchen, going immediately to the cupboard above the sink. He pulled down a bottle of bourbon and poured two fingers into a glass before going back to the living room, taking the bottle with him.

He slumped back onto the couch and finished his glass in one gulp. Half an hour and half a bottle later, he was sated and warm from the alcohol. His inhibitions waning, he picked up the phone and dialed the number; the one printed in dark silver ink from a printer, not the one scribbled in black ink from a Pilot G-2.

"Hello, boy," said a familiar voice.

Dean blinked and looked at the number he dialed. Surely, he dialed the one for the club, right? He double checked and triple checked. He was connected to Purgatory.

"Um...Crowley?" he said hesitantly, surprising himself that after a week and while slightly drunk he still remembered the dude's name.

"You called the wrong number, bugger." And the call ended.

Dean stared at the phone. What the hell? That _was_ Crowley though, right? He dialed the second number. The same voice answered.

"That's more like it," he said.

"What's wrong with the other one?"

"Security. When people call that number asking for Crowley, I know it's a new hire. They ask for Badger, they're booking a reservation," he explained. "Didn't think it'd take you this long to call, though. Seemed like you needed the money."

At least his first intuition was right. "Well, um..." he started. "I didn't at the time, but...something's come up and my brother and I could really use it now."

"Your brother?" Crowley inquired. "Is he joining, too?"

"No, he's only 16," he lied. Of course with Sam working there as well, they would really be making money, but Dean didn't want to drag him into it especially when none of this was his fault.

Crowley sighed. "Pity."

Dean ignored that. "So, uh, when can I start?"

"Ah ah ah," the older man chided. "You have to dance for me first."

There was a pause and then Dean said, "Okay, so when can I do that?"

"Eager, aren't you? Well, if you're free now, come on down."

Dean took a cab, still somewhat buzzed and he also didn't have to figure out the directions to the club. It was almost 1 am when he arrived. He tossed a small wad of notes over the seat to the driver and went to the glass doors of the club.

Crowley greeted him on the inside and guided him to his office toward the back of the club. The office had a weird mix of traditional Chinese decor and modern furniture, but it kind of worked together. Crowley sat at the desk and Dean stood in front of it.

"Didn't bother to change out of your pajamas?" Crowley snickered.

Dean looked down and realized he was wearing an old band tee and sweat pants. He flushed. "Oh, um..."

"Take them off," he commanded. Dean started to quickly peel off his shirt. "No," Crowley stopped him. "Slowly."

He held the bottom hem again and slowly pulled it over his head, moving his hips in what he hoped was seductive. Dean tossed the shirt onto the desk and moved to his pants. He pulled the drawstring to untie it and slid the cotton fabric down his legs.

Then he was standing in only his underwear, which luckily were a tight pair of boxer-briefs.

"Turn around," Crowley ordered and Dean obeyed. Dean heard shuffling behind him before Crowley spoke again. "Bend over," he said.

Dean did just that, jutting his ass out, then suddenly there were strong hands on his hips and something pressed softly against his rear.

"Sir?"

"Don't speak," Crowley said and rubbed what Dean figured was his crotch against Dean's ass. He leaned over Dean's back and whispered into his ear, "I want you."

This was so wrong. Dean could say no, put his clothes back on, and go home. He'd be broke, sure, but he would still have his dignity. A man old enough to be his dad, possibly grandfather even, was rutting slowly against his butt and offering him money.

But he really did need that money.

"Okay," he finally replied, a shakiness to his voice.

A hand cupped his junk through his underwear and he wasn't even hard. Dean heard the distinct sound of someone spitting and then another hand was down the back of his underwear and wet fingers were circling his hole.

Crowley had Dean's underwear pulled down to his thighs and was working two fingers into him, the smaller man bent over the desk for stability. Dean was at least semi-hard by now after promising himself that this was gonna feel good no matter how much he had to force it. He tried to imagine it was maybe Sam but the fingers were too big. He then imagined it was Benny from the diner down the road and, okay, that helped a little. The fingers brushed against that spot and Dean made a noise.

Without warning, the fingers were gone and replaced with a thick cock. Dean yelped and Crowley moaned harshly as he sunk into him. The pain of the stretch stayed just that; it didn't fade to pleasure like usual and that's when Dean realized just how wrong this all was. He wanted to run and hide away for all eternity. He wanted this strange man far away from him. He wanted to be safe in bed with Sam. He wanted to scream, wanted to thrash and give this man a few lasting injuries of his own.

Crowley had been thrusting into him for a good while by now and Dean came involuntarily. Dean was granted at least one of his wishes and screamed when the painful orgasm wracked through him. Crowley pushed into him for another minute or so before he came and groaned, “Freckles.” His sickly cum seeped into Dean and he realized the man hadn't even worn a condom. Dean wanted to cry.

Crowley finally pulled out and Dean was so very grateful. It was all over and he could leave and never see this place ever again.

Until five hundred dollars cash was placed in front of his nose.

"Come back tomorrow night and you'll get twice as much for half the work," Crowley grumbled.

Dean took the folded bills, got dressed, and left.

He hugged himself in the cab on the way home and cried in the mailroom of the apartment building. Dean stayed downstairs for a long time, too afraid to face Sam right now. He sat on the table in front of the mailboxes with his head against the wall. He contemplated banging his head against the metal doors but thought against it because the people in the surrounding apartments probably didn't want to be woken up at 2 in the morning to some jackass trying to knock himself out.

Dean stayed there until sunlight started to shine through the one window in the room. He went into the elevator, meaning to hit the button for the fifth floor, but ended up going to the top floor. Dean found the stairs to the roof and seconds later he had gravel under his feet and he was staring at the city and the road below.

He couldn't. He wanted to, but he shouldn't. He had to provide for Sam, had to keep that boy safe from people like...

People like Crowley.

Dean had to go back though. Disgusting or not, that was the easiest way to get money he could think of, and they _really_ needed it. He swallowed hard and stepped away from the ledge. Two, three yards away. Stay here, he told himself. Right here, it'll all be fine.

His legs carried him toward the ledge regardless and he threw himself off, the ground coming closer and closer until–

Dean's head banged against the metal mailboxes and he woke with a jolt. He felt like jelly when he slid off the table and had to steady himself against it.

"You okay?" he heard someone say. Heard, not seen, as his eyes were pinched shut. Reality and unreality were both so unpleasant he didn't want to face either. "Hello?" the voice said again. Dean opened his eyes this time and saw it was Cassie Robinson from apartment 3c. Her chocolate brown hair fell in ringlets on her shoulders and she was dressed like she was on her way to work, a 9-to-5 office job by the look of it. Dean remembered talking to her when he and Sam first moved into the building and she had said something about working for the local paper.

"Hey," he greeted, moving away from the mailboxes, figuring that's what she was doing here.

"Are you okay?" she repeated. God, why did people care so much?

Dean nodded shakily. He was okay enough and she didn't need to know about this anyway.

"Did you just get home?" she asked with a slight chuckle, still standing where she had been.

"No, I've been here for"–he looked at the clock on the wall behind her–"ah, the last five hours or so..."

"Waiting for the paper?"

"Don't you have a job to get to?" Dean asked, dodging the question and shifting the topic to her.

Cassie shrugged. "I can be a little late, after all I'm the bosses daughter," she added with a smile.

"Well, I'm going back to bed." Dean walked past her, past the elevator and to the stairs, figuring if he walked he'd be too tired to go all the way to the roof.

He reached his apartment with sweat dripping down his back. Was he really that out of shape? Dean unlocked the door and saw Sam laying in the middle of the living room floor, curled in on himself and shivering.

"Sam!" Dean fell to his knees next to his brother.

Sam looked up at him, redness rimming his eyes and puffiness around that. "I woke up and you–and _they_ were back," he said, eyes darting around the room. Dean now saw the scratches on his brothers arms, a nervous thing he sometimes did when the nightmares were bad. He was already regretting leaving for the night; he didn't think he could feel worse at this moment.

"Sam, I'm-I'm sorry," he whispered, gathering the young one in his arms and rocking slightly.

Sam's sobbing began to quiet and his hiccups were less frequent. "Where were you?" he eventually asked.

Dean froze. He really didn't want to think about that at the moment and he was suddenly very aware of anything and everything in the apartment that he could use to maim himself with. His eyes went to the door to the kitchen, where he knew a nice chunk of wood with slots sat and held sharp knives.

"Dean?" was Sam's quiet voice again. His fingers lightly traced the graphic on Dean's shirt.

Dean was too distracted by Sam's touch, like how could someone be so gentle to him when just a few hours earlier it was the exact opposite?

“I was...I was looking for a second job.”

Sam looked at him and he looked at Sam, where his eyes were wetting with tears. “Because of me?” he asked.

“Sam, it was an _accident_ , okay? And I don't blame you for anything.” Dean sighed. “We've been short on money for a while now, anyways. I just need this job for a while...until we get back on track. Maybe I'll get promoted at the coffee house a-and I won't have to work at this other place anymore.”

“Why are you crying?” Sam whispered.

Dean touched his cheek and cursed himself when his hand came away wet. “It's nothing,” he dismissed.

Sam pressed a soft kiss to his brother's temple. “Dean,” he started, “I know you well enough to know that 'nothing' is always something.”

Dean sniffled, cursing himself again. He's supposed to be the strong one, yet here he was breaking down on the floor of the apartment with his little brother being the one offering comfort.

“I don't wanna talk about it,” he whispered finally, peeled Sam's hands off him, and went to the spare room, picking up the bourbon bottle from the coffee table as he went.

Dean locked the door behind him and settled into the chair behind the desk, taking the top off the bottle and tossing it to the other side of the room. He downed most of what was left in one big gulp and there was a soft knocking on the door.

“Go away, Sam,” his voice cracked.

“It's almost time for work.”

Dean sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose between his fingers. On one hand, he shouldn't skip out on work at a time like this; on the other hand, he stared at the now mostly empty bottle of alcohol and remembered that what was no longer in the bottle resided inside him instead. He couldn't afford not to go to work and he definitely couldn't afford to show up drunk.

He unlocked the door and faced Sam. “I'll be ready in a few,” Dean mumbled before heading to the bathroom.

Now, this wasn't something he usually did, as he saw it as a big waste of money, but he had to do something before he got any drunker. Dean leaned over the toilet and stuck his finger in his mouth, wiggling it toward the back, and the alcohol splashed into the bowl. As much as it burned going down, the burn was twice as bad coming back up.

He coughed at the end and flushed, hopefully covering the sound. After rinsing his mouth with water and mouthwash, Dean dressed in his room.

The money Crowley gave him fell out of his pocket and onto the floor. It stared at him and he felt real nausea rising in his throat as he stood there frozen.

“What's that?”

Sam stood in the doorway, eyes locked on the cash. “Is that from your new job?” he asked, coming closer.

Dean snatched up the bills before Sam could see how much was there and tucked them in the drawer of the bedside table. “C'mon, we're gonna be late,” he said as he ushered Sam out of their bedroom then out of the apartment.

The money did not go ignored for the rest of the day. In fact, it was probably the only thing Dean thought about at the shop. That, and the means of how he got it. Crowley's words of “ _twice as much for half the work_ ” echoed through his head. A thousand dollars? What exactly would he be doing for that much?

Just before lunchtime, Dean was clearing a table and the small amount of sleep caught up with him and he almost passed out on his way back to the sink with a bucket full of dirty mugs. He caught himself on the back of a chair, effectively scaring the person seated in it, but the bucket unfortunately flew onto the table. A wave of mugs, empty and full, fell to the ground and most of them shattered.

Great, Dean thought, another $40 out of our pockets.

The patrons from the table shot up, whether to leave without paying or just to move out of the way, Dean didn't know. Sam hopped over the counter and Ellen came from the back with a broom and a mop.

With his head still swimming, Dean plucked the broom from her hand and swept up the chunks of ceramic while Sam sifted through to find the mugs that were still intact.

“You feelin' okay, sweetie?” Ellen asked as she mopped up the coffee that spread beyond the broken shards.

Dean grunted and shrugged. “Yeah, I guess I didn't get a good sleep last night is all.”

“Well, when you're done cleaning up, I want you to go in the back and take a nap for lunch.”

Sam caught Dean's eye and nodded, reiterating Ellen's command.

“Alright, fine,” Dean huffed. He dumped the dustpan into the bin behind the counter and went through the door marked 'Employee's Only.' There was a long table against the back wall and under it was empty space. Dean considered for a moment sleeping atop it but it seemed not to be a sturdy table when he put his hand on it and it wobbled.

His leather jacket hung on a hook by the back door, as it was against uniform to wear it during work. Dean folded it into a make-shift pillow and put it on the ground under one end of the table, then crawled under and laid his head on it. He didn't think he'd fall asleep so quickly while on the ground but then he was in a hallway with a white tile floor and tan lockers lining the walls.

Dean looked up and down the empty hall, one end was a big window letting in the midday sunlight, the other end was a staircase leading down. He went down the stairs and found himself in what he remembered to be the boiler room of the high school he attended for two years before dropping out.

He remembered this because he had a joint pinched in his fingers and this was where all the Burn Outs came to smoke; never got caught because the janitor smoked, too, and if the kids got caught, he got caught (and fired too, no doubt).

Dean brought the cigarette to his lips and breathed, but with no familiar taste on his tongue. Really, it tasted like nothing, but he wasn't exactly fully aware of that so he took another drag.

He closed his eyes and when he opened them he was in a field with his little brother next to him. Little, littler than he was now, and Dean realized it was a memory. Sam's hair came down to his eyes in the front and still had that adolescent curl in the back. He was probably about twelve years old here, putting Dean at sixteen.

On the ground were three fireworks, already lit and about to shoot into the sky. Sam looked at Dean and smiled as the fuses sizzled. They went up, and in three explosions they lit up the sky and specks of light slowly rained down on the brothers, like snow, but really kind of the opposite.

Sam pumped both fists above his head and twirled under it all, in slow motion as Dean watched with awe.

“Dean,” Sam's voice echoed, “Dean.”

The field went dark, and then really light as he woke up.

“Hey, lunch is over,” Sam said, kneeling next to him. Dean rolled toward him and rubbed his eyes.

“Jussa few more minutes,” Dean murmured with a smile, joking as he moved from under the table and went to stand. He almost fell again as stars began to impede on he corners of his vision and he felt a hand on his chest, apparently to hold him up.

“Woah,” Sam gulped. “Are you sure you're okay?”

“M'fine,” Dean replied, noticing now that he was sitting in a chair. A glass was forced into his hand and brought to his lips.

“Have you eaten today?”

Dean nodded unhelpfully. He knew it was a lie; after throwing up he really didn't have the appetite nor the time to eat breakfast anyhow.

Sam must've known, because in the next second Dean was holding an apple turnover and being told to eat it slowly. He bit in and the pie-like filling spilled onto his tongue. Another two bites and it was gone, sitting in his stomach like a warm campfire about to extinguish itself.

“Ellen said I should take you home,” Sam said eventually, now sitting in a chair facing Dean.

“You're not driving my car,” Dean negated, diverting the rest of his energy into the one command before slumping back in the chair.

Sam smirked. “Then I guess you're never going home.”

“Good. I still have work to do.” The older Winchester tried to stand but was stopped when Sam's hand pushed at his shoulder.

“Not like this, you don't.” Sam left and came back with another pastry, a maple log this time, and put it in Dean's hands.

“We sell these?” he asked through the bite that was already in his mouth.

“We have for a while, Dean.”

Dean finished the doughnut and washed it down with the rest of the water.

“Try to stand slowly,” Sam instructed as Dean rose from the chair. He stood up straight and wore a goofy smile. Sam chuckled. “Alright, get out there,” he said, smacking Dean's ass affectionately as he passed.

Dean continued clearing tables for the rest of the day and absolutely did not drop another bucket, thank you. Ellen even gave him a kiss on the temple as he went from the sink back out to the floor. He'd done a good job. Hell, he'd even gotten a tip from an older lady who had been in the cafe during the mishap, telling him that it's okay to flounder sometimes; don't beat yourself up.

He went home feeling great, even drove himself. Dean dumped his uniform shirt with Sam at the laundry room and continued to the apartment alone. Charlie Bradbury from 4b walked into the elevator with him, whistling ironically at his shirtless body.

“You like what you see?” he jested, pretending to flex.

Charlie laughed and then shook her head. You don't need me to tell you this; Charlie is a lesbian. “Dean, I couldn't be attracted to you if I tried.” See? Lesbian.

“And that's why we make such good friends.”

The elevator dinged and Charlie got off. The doors closed, went up one more level, then dinged again and Dean got off.

He was at his apartment door when he could've sworn he heard someone talking, but no one was around. He realized too late that the voice had instead been coming from his own mind, and that the voice originally belonged to _That Man_.

Dean swiftly pushed open the door and sprinted through the living room, through his bedroom, to his closet where on the top shelf was an old cigar box that he stored weed in.

Sure, Dean was an “adult” now and the thought of getting high seemed immature, but he couldn't let the voice become anything more than that. Plus he'd already almost depleted the alcohol supply in the house.

Dean rolled two blunts with the muscle memory still there from high school and lit one, taking a long toke from it and holding it in his lungs for a good twenty seconds. He let it out slowly. The smoke danced under his nose until he tipped his head up and blew it toward the ceiling.

Even only halfway done with the first cigarette, his head felt lighter and the room looked like he was looking through a Fish Eye lens. He sucked on the blunt until it was just a tiny roach and he put it back in the box to be finished with a bowl later.

Through the underwater sounds in his ears, Dean heard the front door closing clear as a bell. “Dean?” He heard Sam through a tunnel. “You left the door open.”

Dean's feet felt like they were far away so he didn't stand up or move, just laid there, wherever he was. Then Sam was in the room. Older Sam; Now Sam. Sam sighing. “Damn it, Dean,” was Sam. “You're gonna get us evicted,” Sam.

Dean felt like his body shrugged, but wasn't sure if he actually made the motion. He pointed to the rolled cigarette next to the cigar box, _that_ he knew he did because he saw his own hand move and found it hilarious for some reason.

“You wanna?” Dean giggled. Sam would, he knew that, but he loved Sam's reaction every time.

“No,” was the answer from his mouth but “yes” was the answer from his hand when it picked up the thing and lit the damn thing on fire. He only ever did one, though, no matter how much Dean was doing. One breath, he'd hold it in for an eternity. Children were were being born, the world turned some, a cow was eating grass somewhere probably. And then a tiny white Cloud Dragon drifted out of Sam's mouth. It was so fucking cool. It soared around his head and dissipated into the sky.

Sam put the tip of his finger in his mouth and then put the finger on the lit end and it went out and then he put the rest back in the box. He put his hands on Dean's wrists and Dean was maybe standing now. “Let's watch something,” Sam said and his face was really close to Dean's face.

“Star Wars,” Dean said and then they were on the couch and that blurb of yellow text was on the screen. He'd read it before, knew what it said, couldn't read it now. The music was cool, it felt like when you're running a fever and you touch something cold, like cold metal or a refrigerated egg. And it was all around them, whole bodies feeling cool.

Dean was laying on the couch with his feet somewhere and Sam was next to him and a blanket was on top of them and this little breeze came every now and then under his legs. So his feet were on the table? He kind of heard the 'pew pew' of the laser guns and he also heard Sam laughing so he laughed, too.

Then that one girl with the white robe and the Honey Buns on her head was recording the thing and the blue trashcan was there. Man, this movie sounds so cool. Then there was a guy and he was complaining and eating and drinking this grey milk stuff.

And Dean felt a little starfish on his chest. He looked down at it, but it was actually Sam's hand and to the left of it was Sam's head. And Sam had his eyes closed because pot made him sleepy. And then Dean was sleepy because Sam's head and hand were warm on him and he felt warm and safe. And safety meant it was okay to sleep.

So he closed his eyes and sleep found him.

Dean woke up, warm between his brother and the wool blanket on top of them. The apartment was dark around him aside from the dvd menu playing on a loop. He yawned and switched on the lamp on the side table. The clock on the cable box said it was nearly midnight and he sat up, jarring Sam awake.

“D'n,” he muttered, still rubbing the sleep from his eyes. Not only did pot make Sam sleepy, but waking up from his post-high nap was like waking a toddler. “W'time izzit?”

“After eleven,” Dean replied, stretching his arms up. “I think I have to go to my second job now.”

“Late?” Sam yawned.

“Yeah, it's a late-night thing.”

Sam laid back down in the spot Dean had just vacated, his head tucked behind Dean's back. “Whaddya do there?” he asked with his eyes closing again.

Dean paused. “I don't know,” he answered truthfully. He really didn't know, and now that he thought about it he couldn't really remember what he'd done the night before. He remembered taking a cab there, he remembered the smell and the sticky feeling in the club, the layout. But as much as he tried to get at it, the memory of what he actually did escaped him.

Whatever, he'd figure it out tonight, then. Dean quickly Googled™ the directions to the club (not far, he found out) and drove there in the Impala. He arrived, parking his Baby in the employee car park, and went in through the back door, which apparently lead to a locker room.

“Freckles!” someone yelled. He recognized the cockney accent and the nickname, then Crowley came into view. Dean felt himself bristle at the mans presence but couldn't quite place why, so he ignored it. Crowley held out a wad of silky fabric. “'Ere ya go, love. Costumes,” he said. “Put one on and I'll see you on the main stage in ten, yeah?”

Dean nodded and dressed. So, strip joint? Yeah, Dean could do this.

Another stripper (dancer, should he say?) approached him and started patting a round sponge on his cheeks.

“Woah.” Dean flinched away. “I'm no Painted Whore,” he said.

The other man shrugged and continued patting. “It's mandatory, or else you look pasty under the lights.” As they continued working on Dean's face, Dean examined the man. Shorter than himself, with golden brown hair that may have been longer than Sam's and pushed back, eyes like honey or maybe whiskey. Attractive, at least.

“I'm Gabriel, by the way,” they spoke, finishing Dean's make up. “But on stage, they call me Hot Wings.”

Dean nodded. “Dean,” he supplied unsolicited. “I'm not sure what my stage name is yet.”

“Freckles,” Gabriel said plainly.

“Freckles?”

“You heard him, right? That's what he called you.”

Dean raised his eyebrows. “ _That's_ what that was?”

Gabriel nodded solemnly. “Yeah. Usually it's what he says when he–“

“Freckles!” Crowley's voice cut them off, shouting from the doorway. “You're up!”

Gabriel saluted Dean dramatically as he headed to the main room of the club.

The music was loud and obstructive, but Dean thought it fit. It had a deep beat that he was sure he'd heard before, maybe something Sam listened to. Before the lyrics started, Crowley's voice poured through the speakers.

“Mick Shagger, everyone!” he introduced. A boy pushed past Dean onto the stage and turned so his ass was to the small audience. He couldn't have been much younger than Sam, short, blonde hair and a trim body. Crowley's voice came again, “Swap Meat!” Another young kid joined Mick onstage, looked to be just out of high school. Dean was only 22 but it seemed he'd be the oldest on the stage. “And introducing, Freckles!” There was an unexpected cheer from the audience. Not huge, it seemed to be just the usual thing: to greet the newcomers with an applause.

Dean stepped onto the stage, the spotlight shimmering against the silver vest top and tight shorts. Another round of hoots and whistles waved from the crowd and it made him feel good.

Crowley's voice faded and the music came back full-force.

_The mirrors image...tells me it's home time._

Dean and the other two swung their hips in time with the beat, moving against each other.

_...but I'm not finished...'cause you're not by my side._

The spotlights heated his skin, and now he was glistening. He lifted his shirt off and a bill was being tucked in the waistband of his shorts. Oh, this was going to be _so_ easy.

_Decided that once again I was just dreamin'..._

He turned and his ass rubbed against the crotch of one of the others. “Uh,” Dean stuttered.

_...of bumpin' into you..._

“Don't sweat it,” he whispered, pulling Dean closer and the crowd made more noise. Their feet shuffled together among the notes that littered the stage.

_Left you multiple missed calls and to my message, you reply..._

“Why'd you only call me when you're high!” the crowd began singing along, loudly and off key, most of them were probably drunk.

The song ended some time later and Dean, Mick, and... Meat (uh?) gathered the cash and split it between them once off the stage. He noticed they were mostly 20s and 50s. Damn, these gays were loaded, something he didn't imagine coming into this.

They handed Dean his cut and patted him on the shoulder before disappearing into the crowd. He counted the bills.

$700.

He thought he was going to faint. Or wake up, one of the two. Just to make sure, he pinched his thigh as hard as he could and, yep, that hurt. He was awake and this money was real.

He'd more than doubled the cash from the night before, and in the space of two days, Dean earned their entire monthly rent and more. A stupid grin formed on his face and it stayed there for the next half hour.

Crowley had come back in that time and told him first-time dancers only did one dance their first night, which Dean was okay with. Hello? $1,200 in two days? He could retire on that salary.

When Dean rolled back into the garage, it was just after 1 am. He was exhausted, despite the two naps he had taken in the day. He trudged up to the apartment and Sam was still where he was when he left, sound asleep, thankfully. Dean really couldn't deal with another nightmare at the moment. He slid onto the couch next to his brother and quickly fell into a dreamless sleep. 


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ah i guess i should tw for talk abt homelessness/shelter life/idk   
> if ur triggered by people talking abt how they became homeless or stuff abt living in a shelter then probably skip down to the first cut
> 
> also smut so...

Castiel made his way back down to the lobby of the Winchesters' apartment building and then out the door. His still-damp trenchcoat was tucked under one arm as he walked to the shelter that was three blocks away.

Thank the Lord they're still serving breakfast, Castiel thought to himself as he walked through the doors of Douglas County Community Center and saw the usual crowd gathered in a messy line. He stood behind a man with thinning hair that reached his mid-back and a beard just as long.

The man sensed his presence and turned around with a smile. “Hey, Castiel!” he greeted enthusiastically. “Where were you last night?”

Castiel explained that he'd gotten a job that occurred late at night and when he'd gotten off, there was no vacancy at the shelter.

The man nodded sadly. “I've heard there's a lot more of us now, beds are filling up faster. It's nice to hear you got a job, though,” he added. “How's it pay?”

“Fairly well,” Castiel said. “But it's not exactly pleasant.”

“How so?” he asked with his head tilted.

“It's a strip club. Though the manager seems to abuse the employees, as I've noticed.”

“Abuse? Shouldn't you tell someone?”

Castiel shook his head. “Greg, If I tell, the club might get shut down. Where would I work, then?”

He sighed, understanding Castiel's point. “Just look after yourself, okay?” Castiel nodded. Greg's eyes widened as he appeared to realize something. “It was raining all night. Where did you go?”

A tiny smile snuck onto Castiel's face. “I stayed with a friend who also works at the club. He was nice, but I think my presence was a burden on him and his roommate.”

The line had moved enough by now that Castiel and Greg reached the plates. Greasy scrambled eggs sat in mounds in a heated serving tray. Castiel strategically took a scoop from the peaks that weren't swimming in the separated liquid. Greg scooped two generous piles onto his plate.

“You're not gonna go back, I gather?” he asked, now placing a slice of white bread next to the eggs.

“I don't think I should.”

“Why not? I mean, not to be rude or anything but does he know you're...”

“He knows. I just don't think he'd like me living there, living rent-free.”

“You'd be able to pay eventually though, right? Did he ask you to pay?” They were through the line now with an apple added to each of their plates and they sat together at a table.

“He said it'd be free but he told me he already had trouble paying rent; I wouldn't want to make it worse.”

Greg shook his head and forked eggs into his mouth. “People like that, I swear.” As he spoke, Castiel watched a bit of food fall onto his beard and went unnoticed by the other man. “They have a job, make steady money, then complain that they don't have enough.”

Castiel shrugged and started on his own breakfast. “I'm not sure it's all his fault, though. I think he and Sam own a cafe, if I'm not mistaken.”

Greg scoffed. “Business owners? Wasting their money elsewhere, no doubt. _That's_ why they can't pay rent. Probably buying drugs,” he mumbled.

“Don't you say that, Gregory,” Castiel said, gaze hardening on the man in front of him. “You shouldn't assume things, especially about people you've never met.”

“Do _you_ think they're on drugs?” Greg's fork clattered on the table when he dropped it angrily.

“I don't think anything.”

Greg smirked. “No, you don't.”

With that, Castiel stood and carried his plate to another table, this one with only two women at it. They smiled as he sat. He forced a smile in reply but didn't speak as he finished his food.

Soon, the walk-ins left and the shelter regulars gathered the plates and put away the remainders of the food. They snacked on the apples, knowing they'd not keep for much longer as some of them were already going mushy.

Some of these people pretty much lived here, staying inside and participating in group activities throughout the day. Others only stayed the night and left after the post-breakfast clean up. Castiel was usually one to leave, but having been gone all night he wanted to catch up with some of the friends he'd made there.

Garth greeted him with an abrupt hug and told him that yesterday's AA meeting marked Garth's three-year sobriety. He proved it by holding up a wooden token with the words '3 Years' etched on one side. Castiel congratulated him with a bright smile.

Meg, who once lived in luxury with her husband, said her daughter was in the juvenile correctional institution again. Lilith was her name, and Meg showed Castiel the only pictures she had of the girl. In the photos, Lilith seemed like any regular 8-year-old as she sat and smiled on a coin-operated horse. She wore a light pink dress with a bow on the front. Meg told him she was now almost sixteen and had been arrested for shoplifting for the third time.

Samandriel seemed like the baby amongst everyone. He was only 16 and his parents kicked him out when he came out as gay, and frankly Castiel could relate. Luckily, everyone in the shelter knew how hard it was for a kid living on the streets. Samandriel still went to school, though, and the only people who didn't know of his current living situation were the ones who shoved him into lockers for his sexual orientation. He'd left school early that day with a split lip and black eye. Castiel hugged him while Samandriel tried not to cry.

After lunch, the cafeteria turned into a music room with donated instruments brought in. A guitar out of tune and with three strings, bongo drums that had been duct-taped together countless times, tambourines that had only half their original cymbals, and a keyboard (which Castiel favored) were rolled in on a pallet.

People grabbed for the instruments. By now, most of the regulars were aware of who got what. Greg on guitar, Garth on bongos, Castiel on piano, and so on. They didn't play any distinct melody together, just kind of played individual songs to themselves and the few around them that listened, although sometimes they did end up playing the same song as those near them.

Castiel plugged the electric keyboard into the wall and balanced it on his knees and began to play Ode to Joy from memory. Some of the much older people gathered around and listened idly. The mix of sounds filled the room, Meg sang along to whatever Greg was playing. Castiel didn't recognize it, but he wasn't really paying attention to anything else besides the keys under his fingers.

Ode to Joy faded to Heart and Soul, the small crowd bopping along to the upbeat tune. Castiel smiled, loving how it felt to have people enjoy the music he remembered playing from his childhood.

His older brothers taught him a few short songs on the baby grand piano their family had. Castiel soon gained interest in playing more intricate songs, but not long after he got sheet music for them his parents caught his brother with a boy. Castiel knew they'd eventually find out about his own sexuality. He left when he was fourteen and he'd been living in the shelter off and on since then.

For a time, he had lived with his brother. Both being the misfits of their family, they vowed to stick together. They'd done well for a while, living in cheap apartments and long-term motels, before Castiel's older brother was fired from his job then apparently dropped off the face of the earth. Castiel had lived in secret in one of the many empty rooms in Meg's mansion before her husband found out. When the two showed up at the shelter at the same time, people asked if their house burned down or something.

Music time was over. The groups dissipated and the instruments were returned to the closet from whence they came. The rest of the day went by uneventfully and then it was time for Castiel to go back to Purgatory.

He dressed again in the pants Dean gave him and stopped by the consignment clothing store on his way to the club and picked up two vest tops that had almost no stains on them and another button-up shirt, this one light blue. Together the shirts totaled $20 and he paid with the money he'd earned from the night before. Castiel changed into one of the vest tops in the bathroom of the store and wore the blue shirt over it, hanging open.

It was almost dinner time and Dean and Sam had already finished the pizza, leaving them to cook their own meal. Spaghetti was simple enough. Sam boiled the noodles while Dean made the sauce.

While the noodles cooked, Dean started tickling Sam's ribs. The younger brother giggled and leapt away half-heartedly.

“Dean, stop,” he tittered, but of course that went ignored when Dean trapped him in the corner of the counters and his fingers fluttered around Sam's middle. Sam wriggled in a fit of laughter. “Jerk!” he exclaimed as Dean continued.

It was all fun and games until Sam's flailing arm smacked the handle of the saucepan and flung hot pasta sauce all over the stove and some splattered onto Dean.

“Son of a–“ he yelped as it burned his arm. Sam quickly brought Dean's arm under a cold tap of water.

“I told you to stop,” Sam tsked sarcastically.

Dean scrunched his face. “Ha ha,” he began dryly, “rub it in, why don't ya?”

The sauce was cleaned off and Dean's arm was still warm and red. He sat on the bathroom counter while Sam rubbed aloe on the burn and wrapped it.

“Are you working tonight?” Sam asked absently and Dean replied with a nod. “What will your boss think of this?” He gestured to the bandage.

Dean shrugged. “Maybe I'll take it off before work.”

“You should probably keep it on overnight, Dean.”

The older brother slipped off the counter. “I'll talk to Crowley about it, he probably won't care.”

Sam kissed him gently and they went back to the kitchen to clean up their mess. There wasn't enough sauce left in the pan for spaghetti so they made sandwiches instead, eating them while watching the last half hour of Ferris Bueller's Day Off on tv, then it was time for Dean to go to work.

The club was usually less crowded on Thursdays, meaning less dances and less money. Of course for someone like Dean that wasn't such a bad thing, but for Castiel it meant he was leaving with only $100 for the night.

Castiel walked out to the parking lot with his arms wrapped around himself. He realized that again he'd been working late and the shelter would probably be full again. He decided he'd walk to the park and sleep on one of the benches by the river.

“Hey, Cas.”

The voice pulled Castiel out of his thoughts and he turned around. Dean leaned against the building with a lit cigarette dangling from his lips.

“Hello, Dean,” he replied, still admiring the harsh shadows on the mans face under the glow of the neon sign. “I thought you left a while ago.”

Dean shrugged and flicked the cigarette onto the ground. “Thought you might wanna stay with us again.”

“No, that's okay,” Castiel shook his head. “I'll find someplace.”

“Thought you said the shelter runs out of beds this late?”

“Like I said, I'll find someplace,” he repeated.

Dean stepped closer and they were now only inches apart. “Seriously, it's no big deal for you to live with me and Sam.”

“I couldn't...I'd be a burden and you'd expect me to pay. Plus, I think I'd be getting in the middle of you two,” Castiel added.

Dean scoffed. “Sam's just my roommate.”

Castiel tilted his head and glared pointedly. “Dean, you have a two bedroom apartment and one is your spare room. Don't try to fool me.”

Dean made noises like he was stammering to say something. He was probably blushing but Castiel couldn't see in the dark.

“I also know that's why you won't kiss me when it seems like it's all you want to do,” Castiel murmured, looking down at his hands.

Dean sighed and dragged a hand down his face, stepping back. “I don't want to hurt him like that, Cas. And our relationship's been really strained lately.”

“Maybe you need space.”

“What?”

“I mean, you live together, you work together, you sleep together. Is there any time when you're not together?”

There was a pause and then Dean said, “When I'm here.”

“Then kiss me while you're here.” Castiel stepped forward, emphasizing his point, and they were a hair's breadth away from each other now.

Dean's eyes slid closed as he leaned in and their lips softly pressed against each others. He pulled back slightly. “I'm not sure i-if...” he whispered against Castiel's lips for a second before they were on his again. His hands naturally went to Cas's waist, and Cas's hands rested on Dean's shoulders as their bodies rolled together.

More dancers began to trickle out of the club, some began whooping at the scene. Dean pulled away, Castiel's hands still in place.

“'Sam,' _my ass_!” one of them yelled. Castiel didn't know most of the dancers, but Dean apparently knew this one.

“Aw, shut it, Adam!” he shouted back before looking at Cas again. “Sorry,” Dean sighed, “Let's, ah, move this to my car.”

And then they were in the backseat of the Impala, hands roaming all over and soon they had their shirts off. Castiel laid back on the seat and Dean slotted between his legs, Dean pressed his erection against Cas's crotch.

“I-it's getting late,” he stuttered into Castiel's ear. “Sam expects me soon.”

Castiel kissed down his neck. “Then we should be quick,” he said as he started unbuttoning Dean's pants. Castiel's hand was in the panties Dean still wore from the night. He wrapped his fingers around the base of Dean's cock and stroked it slowly.

“Oh, God,” Dean moaned and rocked his hips into Castiel's hand. Castiel's lips were at Dean's nipples and he licked tiny circles around the nub of one. Dean's hips stuttered as he came embarrassingly fast. And in the back of a car? God, was he a teenager or what?

“Sorry,” he grumbled and sat back on his heels. He found a napkin leftover from take-out on the floorboard and tossed it at Cas to clean up the mess on his chest, now seeing that Castiel was still incredibly hard in his jeans.

Castiel shook his head at the napkin. “Lick it off me,” he demanded flatly.

Dean's mouth went dry and he was already getting hard again. He leaned over the smaller man's chest and ran his tongue through his own streams of cum, lapping them up slowly and holding eye contact with Castiel who moaned at the sight.

Dean unzipped Cas's jeans and took his dick out, fully erect and leaking precum from the tip. He swiped over that with the pad of his thumb and spread the moisture down the shaft and began pumping in an even rhythm.

Castiel tossed his head back and moaned then with another strangled sound he was blowing his load all over where Dean just licked up his own. Dean continued licking and the over-sensitivity of post-orgasm make sparks go down Castiel's back and through his navel, where some cum had gathered and Dean dipped his tongue into it.

When Dean finished he tucked Cas back into his pants and did the same with himself, noticing he was still out. They laid together on the seat for a bit before the cold air of the night seeped into their bubble of warmth.

“So, is that offer still up to stay at your place for the night?” Castiel said when both men had their shirts on again.

Dean nodded and the two moved into the front seat to drive to the apartment.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> also (i hate saying this) but i feel like im not totally happy w this chapter but im tired of looking at it and i wanted to update this fic


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